


And It Runs Hot Like a Memory, Through These Veins

by xbedhead



Category: Justified
Genre: Fever, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbedhead/pseuds/xbedhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here was my prompt: <i>Raylan, Aunt Helen, fever</i> (gotta love the fever!fics) and the story is below.  Unbeta'd.  <i>God</i>, I miss Aunt Helen...</p>
            </blockquote>





	And It Runs Hot Like a Memory, Through These Veins

~*~

He’s fighting her like a wildcat and she’s surprised at his strength. Since Monday, the only thing he’s had is ginger ale and chicken broth, his fever coming in waves. He’d been dreaming and she’s not sure if he’s awake or still caught in whatever had spooked him while he tried to sleep.

“Raylan,” she calls out through gritted teeth, arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding him down on the foldout couch as he tries to buck her off. She’s careful not to squeeze too hard – she’d picked him up from the house with the flu and a fresh set of bruises from Arlo.

“Let’s leave,” he wails, face twisted and eyelids clenched. “Why can’t we leave, Momma? _Please_.”

Helen’s heart twists and she feels heat in the back of her eyes, knowing just where his mind’s at now. Frances has been dead four months and she’s yet to see any emotion other than a firm set to his jaw from her sister’s only son. She’d kept him for a few days after the funeral, but he’d never said a word. He had to return to school eventually and the farm was a shorter walk than her house on Indian Line. So, he went back to Arlo and she came around at least twice a week to make sure the lights were still on and there was food in the fridge. 

Raylan had been doing chores since he was able to walk, eager to help his mother at first, then realizing they helped him to steer clear of his father. But even though the house was clean and he always washed behind his ears, Raylan was alone most nights and it was the dead of winter. The heat was out and Arlo didn’t have the money or inclination to fix it in the foreseeable future, so she’d snatched her nephew up when the fever set in and prayed that it didn’t get worse. 

“Shh,” she soothes, rocking him in a rhythm that eases his fidgeting. “It’s okay, honey. It’s okay.”

He’s crying now and she knows that he’s awake, that he’s made the transition and he realizes what’s happened – that no matter how real his mother had seemed, she wasn’t actually there. He stops fighting against her and clutches onto her arm, his back heaving as he hiccups into her shoulder. This is the only time she suspects she’ll see him break down like this, because even though he’s barely eleven, it’s been a long time since anyone’s considered Raylan a child.

“Why’d she leave me?” he asks, his voice cracking as he speaks through the last of his sobs. 

“Oh, honey, you know she didn’t want to – she was sick. She – ”

“ _No_. Be _fore_ \- why’d she leave me?” he demands, nearly shouting as he’s pushing himself away from her embrace. “She went to Noble’s Holler and left me with _him_. Why’d she do that? Why didn’t she take me with ‘er?”

His nose is stopped up and his eyes are shining and she’s not sure she can answer this question because in truth, she doesn’t know. She’d wondered it herself, but couldn’t bring herself to say anything to Frances about it when she’d finally returned, five weeks later. Yes, she’d kept Raylan most of the time – luckily it was summer and school didn’t matter – but Frances’d never said a word about it, never gave any warning, any explanation. Just…took off to that forbidden land with a broken arm, swollen eyes and the remnants of her second child still inside her.

“I don’t know, honey,” she finally says, knowing he’d see right through her lies. It was her own damned fault – she’d taught him how to spot one. “I don’t know. I know she was scared, she didn’t know what to do with your daddy…you know the way that he gets. Maybe she…”

Helen didn’t know. She didn’t know what else to say and nothing could make it any better – of _that_ she was sure. 

She’d always loved Raylan, starting from the second he’d slid out of Frances and into her arms, right in the middle of this very living room. She and Spurgeon never had any luck with children and when he died long and slow of black lung, she’d given up any chance of coddling a baby of her own. Raylan was all she’d needed and as much as she tried to keep a firm hand, she’d do anything for that boy and he knew it. He didn’t exploit it – he was too smart for that – but he knew how to wrangle an extra hour of TV out of her at night, or a candy necklace when she’d just gone in for smokes.

Hand still tracing along his sweaty back, she waits next to him as he reins in the tears and the shudders. “Your stomach still botherin’ you?” she whispers, reminding herself to pick up some more Pepto-Bismol in the morning.

He nods weakly and turns in to face the back of the couch, picking at the button she’d caught him twisting more than once. She pats his clammy shoulder and pushes herself off the low couch with a grunt. He mumbles something, but he’s still focused on that button, eyes adjusted to the darkness.

“What’s that?”

“I’m sorry for wakin’ you up,” he repeats over his shoulder, eyes glazed and greasy hair sticking up in all directions.

“Honey, don’t you apologize for that – you hear?” She waits until she gets another nod before offering, “I’ll get you some Ale-8, then. How’s that sound?”

He considers it a moment, licks at his dried lips and clears his throat a little. “You got any ice cream?” he asks timidly and she can tell he thinks she’ll turn him down.

She can’t. She never could. 

So she bends down and gives him a kiss on his forehead, smiling when he closes his eyes instead of wiping at his skin. “I’ll be right back.”


End file.
